The Illusion of Magic
by James S Riddle
Summary: Harry was raised in a hostile environment. He didn't come out of there trusting, submissive, and docile; he didn't come out of there looking for a father figure. He grew self-reliant and full of insight. And now he's ready to show the world what he knows.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

Harry Evans was a prodigious child. He was capable of mental movements beyond his relatives' imaginations. He wasn't a mathematical or scientific specialist, however; his relatives had seen to that. But he was a philosophical and psychological master. He had to be in order to survive in the physically untarnished manner that he had.

Using his gift for misdirection, Harry was able to entertain his pernicious relatives. He was able to play on their fears and loves and aspirations. He was able to manipulate their cognition to the point where even he grew to fear his abilities. He would take on the role of Entertainer in their presence; he would read their minds, perform illusory tricks; basically, he would do anything he could in order to avoid the emotional abuse to which he was often subjected.

Essentially, Harry was taught to survive through manipulating the human element. Though certainly, partly a result of nurturing, nature itself played a large role. Harry was born an intuitive child. Complex associations were occurring in his mind from birth. As a child he would often exhibit a sly, shy grin; a Mona Lisa smile; a signification of his two sided psyche. His eyes would wonder around taking in the people and attempting to understand them and organize them into systems of his own creation. And in doing this, Harry would present an empathetic and noble and proud self to the world: a defiant idealist set on organizing the world in the proper sense, his sense. However, there was another side to this aspiring leader. A side he had hid from himself, until that fateful night.

Being raised by his relatives taught Harry the most crucial lesson he even learned in his life: you can't trust a title. You can't trust people to do the right thing because of who they are. You can't look at a man, see how the world sees him, and judge him based on that pseudo-reflection. You have to see what he does and how and why he does it. And watching his relatives, Harry only saw acts of hatred and bigotry inspired by greediness and selfishness and ignorance parading as acts of "generosity" and "love" inspired by the pathological need to be "normal" and "good" and "holy".

Going to a place of worship every Sunday in his early childhood taught Harry the power of belief and illusion. He learned to distrust the church from a young age. He saw through the lies; he saw through the control. He could see that well: the manipulation of thought. He even admired the practitioners of the art; he admired their self-control. And secretly, he longed to be one and - in so doing - expose the lies and controls of others.

In short, he longed to be a Mentalist, a manipulator of thought, a man who doesn't have to live in fear of being taken advantage of, because he controls all the outcomes. Mentalism and illusionism meant freedom to young Evans, and hell if anyone would stop him sharing his gifts with the world.

Chapter 1

Wondering down the alley, the blonde-haired, blue-eyed young master stalked proudly down the road, drinking in the sights and sounds of the Wizard Underground in London. His eyes sparkled with hidden meaning and magic, attracting a portion of the passersby who could subconsciously feel the immense strength of the boy.

Approaching a tall marble structure with "Gringott's" emblazoned on it, the noble child entered resolutely, without fear, like his father would have taught him. He went to the first open counter he saw, sly grin on his face, he intoned:

"Hello. I'm here for my one o'clock."

The goblin who received him checked his watch - which read ten thirty - and glared expectantly, "And you are?"

"The Heir of Slytherin, of course."

The boy watched the emotions play out very quickly on the creature's face, first a mixture of amusement and shock led to fear and awe which led to doubt and mischief which led to:

"But, of course, sire. Right this way. We'll get you your vault keys."

The goblin hopped deftly over the counter, and continued on, marching importantly down the hallway which continued on to the east side of the building: where the Gringott's prison system was set up centuries ago.

Claiming to be a descendent of a dead prestigious family was a common occurrence in England prior to the Goblin Revolts of the 1470s. As a result of the war, the Bank, on the authority of the Ministry, established a criminal system especially for those fraudsters. Or at least this was the publically touted excuse for the Goblins to have their own secret prisons in which to store bodies the Ministry would rather pretend did not exist.

Some say the war was a success, restoring order and justice. Others saw it as a front for the establishment of such a system. In either case, the media's exaltation of the decrease in the amount of people claiming to be descendent from old, rich, and dead families over the years gave the Ministry the perfect public perception in order to push their pure-blood agenda on the people, involuntarily. 'If the war against the deluded bigots is to be won, this system will have to go,' the blonde youth thought.

Harry's disguise was flawless. He had been able to go the Non-Magic Store and buy the supplies needed to put on the show in which he was currently engaging. He had seen a smaller boy around his age acting the part of spoiled rich kid to a T and stolen his identity (or at least crafted a character based on such). In so doing, Harry ensured a thorough investigation into this character would lead to nowhere. He had even had fun leaving a trail that would only lead investigators to a house full of dead Death Eaters and undone blood magic and hidden in the basement the bodies of a small (well, few in number shall we say) muggle family. And yet, none of the evidence he left could allow any indication of there having been a dark-haired bespectacled fellow in that house, ever.

Harry slowly smirked as they arrived where he knew he needed to be.

Author's Note: Hi! This is my first fanfic. I'm not sure if I should pursue this. It really depends on whether anyone is interested in my proceeding. I was basically hoping to craft a new type of character through which the role of "Harry" could be portrayed. I'm just tired of all the either "acquiescing Harrys" (the ones who blow Dumbledore and fuck Ginny/Hermione and basically act like Jesus, AKA self-sacrificing, AKA OOC for an abused child whose every move has been planned for him) or "bad-ass Harrys" (the ones who fuck everybody and kill everybody). There's rarely a good balance. And rarely are these characters the least bit charismatic and complex. It usually amounts to sounding like some horny teenager writing with too little imagination; you can tell they are projecting their feelings onto the characters and the resulting story sounds like some preachy moral lesson involving fictional stories. In short, those stories are boring, unimaginative, and unintellectual. So anyway, if you'd like something not like what I mentioned, please tell me, so that I will pursue this. If not, pshh, I got better things to do.

_Bises,_

_Jimmy Riddle._


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Meticulousness wins trials, as does good lying.

AN: Sorry to any affected by this, but as one reviewer mentioned, I hadn't included a year of age. Uh, basically, I never thought to write that in virtue of the way I'm writing this, so let me just say that this sequence in the present here occurs during the spring before Harry turns 11. So, a few months before Hagrid would have come, etc., and so forth. 3

AN2: Yeah, some might be confused given the subtle nature of the way I was setting things up, but Harry is not Slytherin's Heir. That was a pretext he created for them to arrest him and bring him down into the prison where then he could do whatever it was he was going to do. So, sorry if that was confusing.

Harry exited the ruins of the Bank's former prison wards via a portkey he charmed prior to his arrival. The portkey itself was in in the shape of an intricate bejeweled snake, one that looked like a Death Eater made and used it, say, Lucius Malfoy, whose former body was occupying the living room floor of Number 4. Lucius, the Death Eater, who upon being made aware of the falling of the wards, went immediately along with his brethren (cousins, goons, partners, et al.) only to be ambushed via Muggle means, namely, a rifle bullet to the head.

Having killed the relatively large group (five people total) this way, Harry had to take a relatively long time reassembling the bodies in a way to present a reasonable explanation for his miraculous survival. More miraculous than his survival was his ability to accomplish this task. But the reason for his plan's efficacy manifested from Harry's tactics of engaging the enemy.

Harry learned one thing after his first encounter with a wizard in close combat: ferocity means victory. One simply can't "out-duel" another in a real close combat situation nor should one want to engage in such an activity. Out-dueling is a sport for those too meek to fight. While dueling is about winning, fighting is about dominating. And domination comes from control. If one controls that combat situation, one will dominate and, in the long run, win.

Harry found this concept suited his thought processing very well. His imagination could work to formulate plans that would feed his acting side. Thus, Number 4 was the perfect testing ground for his skills. His vast store of experience there allowed him to scope out the best vantage point to gun down any intruders rather quickly. Harry found that when one knows the physicality of a potential battle then one can basically make up as many fictional scenarios in one's head, involving the fantasy world one is using as a combat zone, where one wins and one's opponent loses. If one controls all the alternatives, one controls the outcome.

Thus, one would find Harry Evans sitting on the couch in his formerly living relatives' house, wearing a tight-fitting, crimson Muggle tee-shirt and slim jeans, awaiting the arrival of whichever authorities may come. He was browsing intently a magazine with moving pictures he had nicked from one of the fallen wizard's robes. Entitled _Independent and Libertarian Spellcaster's Weekly_, Harry found the magazine to be rather boorish, a normal wizard supremacy sympathizer to be fair, a fascist wizard supremacy promoter to be honest.

Whoosh! Someone had blown the front door off its hinges into the house. A group of cloaked wizards followed. Wands drawn, the group, consisting of a tall, black wizard, a pink-haired witch, and a much older man with a whizzing eyeball, made their way into the room as Harry quickly cast aside the magazine and stiffened his other movements.

"Relax, kid. We're Aurors, wizard police," said the woman.

Wincing like a pain spell victim and yet smiling disarmingly, he started benignly, "Hello."

Looking at the wreckage of the strewn bodies and yet relatively unscathed house and boy in front of them, the wizards were struck momentarily speechless, until the whizzing-eyed man finally said, "Boy, what happened here?"

"Gee, I'm fine, thanks," came the snap, smart reply.

Actually blushing the man started to apologize, "Right. Look—"

Harry wouldn't let him, "First they cast some red light thing at me from those sticks - _crucheo _or _cruchio_, I don't know - and it hurt—" eyes glazing over, he stared off into space, as if remembering. He shivered. 

The wizards started whispering back and forth to each other, the witch becoming most agitated, enunciating the words _unbelievable, torture, _and _child_ a fair few times.

Refraining from smirking Harry continued, "Then they started doing the same to my family, my aunt and uncle and cousin." Here, Harry let out a sob and hiccupped. "Then I remember them saying a different word and a blue light came this time, but I couldn't hear what they were saying anymore," he paused again, collecting himself. "Then I saw myself getting my uncle's gun, but it was like I wasn't in control anymore. And then—" Harry stopped confusion, annoyance, and pain evident on his face.

"What, kid? What did they make you do?" Moody said, clearly incensed by the torture and worried by the implications of what he was hearing.

Giving the show of thinking hard and giving up Harry replied, "I— I don't remember. It's like there's this wall of memories missing from then till when I woke up." Changing the subject slightly he pressed, "Sirs, ma'am, where's my family? What happened?"

The Aurors in front of Harry shared a looked. Relief, anger, and confusion played across all their faces yet none could come up with a worthy reply and none of them could come up with a good stratagem of a contingency plan. So following Order and Ministry Procedure, they left the boy hanging and took his statement, and finally the whizzing-eyed one pulled out his Hogwarts Emergency Portkey (as opposed to his Ministry, House, or Safe House ones, Harry noted, glancing at the insides of the robe-flap) and the three quickly disappeared leaving the bodies to be discovered by the Muggle Police later. After all, it wasn't their jurisdiction.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 – Harry v. Albus

Harry continued to glance directly into the eyes of the seemingly kindly and elderly yet powerful professor emeritus sitting across from him. Having recounted his version of the events, he exhibited no physical signs of deceit. A slight pain developed in Harry's head, which he immediately recognized and at which he projected his pseudo-memory palace, that is, the accumulated memories he had manufactured for a meeting such as this. There was a brief pause as the old man, Professor Dumbledore, digested the events.

"Mister Potter-"

"Evans, sir."

"Evans," he granted begrudgingly, "I have to say that you pose an interesting puzzle for me here. You see, according to the all the physical and magic evidence at the scene, it seems as though, for some reason, the wards surrounding your house went under and a group of dark wizards, led by the late Mister Malfoy, came, attacked, and were defeated by some other dark wizard who escaped, leaving you to take the fall for all the deaths that took place." He paused to collect himself and continue but Harry cut him off.

"Wow. Sir, who do you think it was that did this?" Harry inquired innocently.

"I know who did this, Harry. Or, at least, I know of the only two people who could have done this. However, the real posing question is why."

"Well, perhaps this person you spoke of wanted to hurt me but was unable to do so, and so they did the next best thing."

This gave Albus pause but he continued. "Harry, I know it was you who killed all those people."

"Sir?"

"I believe you acted without having been affected by the Imperius Curse, the blue light as you put it, which would have left traces on your person. And yet, I see none."

"But the nurse said there was residue on—"

"Yes, well, that is one way to determine if the curse has been cast, to find that traces of the magic are left physically, but I'm not denying that you were struck by the curse. However, there is a little known effect of the curse on the mind: it makes memories disorganized as they return. Generally, the most affective memories return first and the least affective later. Yet you, my boy, your memories are all there and all completely chronological.

"Furthermore, the wards could have only fallen if you or your aunt were to die. So, you see, your aunt was dead before those wizards came. So we come full circle: why did you kill your family, Harry? The others I can understand, but your family?"

'This is going to be more difficult than I thought,' Harry thought immediately preceding his bursting into tears. "Sir, I wasn't completely honest, but I swear I didn't kill anybody!"

"You're lying, Harry. Tell me what happened now, or I'll just send you off to the Ministry for prosecution." It was an empty threat, but Harry didn't know that.

'So this was his play.' Harry's tears quickly subsided and he looked into Dumbledore's eyes, "My uncle killed my aunt and cousin, sir." Harry looked away now, his voice staying even. "He had just lost his job at the factory; they had forced him to resign. He was going to end everything for us and him. So he shot them," Here Harry turned his sights back to the sage, "but when he turned the gun on me, something happened, and the gun came flying to me and I shot him. Then I saw some light and that's all I remember. When I woke up, I had all these memories that I couldn't explain and well, maybe you could help?"

Dumbledore leaned back in his seat and sighed, trying to piece everything together. Glancing around his office at the portraits, he could see essentially all of them sitting rigidly, feigning sleep.

"Harry, Harry, Harry," Dumbledore started, breaking out into a grin, "I'm glad to hear such honesty." Harry mentally relaxed, making sure to maintain the same physical rigidity. "Now, this does make much more sense. However, this means that indeed there was another wizard there. Let me first apologize for my threat, but tell me, Harry, do you know how your parents died?"

Harry physically squelched, "Yes, sir," he said quietly.

"Your parents were very brave people, Harry."

Harry snorted. "Professor? My father killed my mother and then himself, how is that bravery?"

A confused expression played across the man's face, "Is that what you believe happened that fateful night, Harry?"

It was Harry's time to feign confusion, "That's all anyone had ever told me."

Dumbledore harrumphed and developed a guilty look in his eyes, "That is not how your parents died, Harry. Who told you that?"

"My aunt and uncle and then family friends confirmed it," Harry said.

Dumbledore sighed, "Well, that is not what happened. In fact, your father died trying to save your mother's life, and she died saving yours." Here he paused, giving Harry time to digest this new history. "There has been a war in the Wizarding World for many centuries, Harry. A war between those who believe magic should be shared only between magical creatures and those who believe magic should be universally shared. Recently this war has been fought over one major issue: Muggle-born wizards. There are some, like Mister Malfoy, who believe such wizards are intrinsically inferior and should be excluded from our world. And there are others, like your parents, who believe such wizards are no different and should be accepted by the magical community. And it was this war that caused your parents' deaths. Their nobility in fighting for their values ultimately led them to be major targets of the leader on Mister Malfoy's side, Lord Voldemort. He sought them out and assassinated them and he tried to kill you." Harry reached for his forehead, "Yes. That is where his curse fell. Yet because of your mothers' sacrifice, you were able to live at the cost of Voldemort.

"Now, I tell you that story for two reasons. One, you deserve and need to know the truth of your parents demise. Second, I have a theory of what happened that night. You see, most people in our world believe Voldemort to be vanquished as a result of that night. However, there was never a body found; there was never any evidence that he died other than the curse that he fired that ricocheted off of you onto him was the killing curse." Dumbledore's eyes glazed over in thought.

"So why don't you think he died, sir?" Harry politely prodded.

Forced back into the reality of the conversation, he grinned at the childish curiosity on display in front of him, "Ah; that is the question isn't it." Eyes alight, he continued, "Voldemort is a very dark wizard, yes, but he is also very powerful, perhaps even more so than myself." Harry refrained from snorting at the conceitedness on display in front of him. 'Am I supposed to be impressed,' Harry thought. "And when a powerful wizard dies, there is a unique aura that develops surrounding the place of death for hours afterwards. And when examining the ruins of your parents' house, I found not any indications of such an aura."

"So, what do you think happened?" actual curiosity making its way into Harry's voice as he tilted his head slightly to the left, in thought.

Excited like a scientist sharing his hypothesis on the origins of the universe, Dumbledore furthered, "It is my belief that indeed a death spell came towards you, but upon its deflection, the magic itself changed causing Voldemort to be drastically wounded, but still alive. In essence, he became a bodiless soul."

"And what happened to his soul?"

"It disappeared, probably sought out a weak-willed person to feed off of, until a point where Voldemort could return to a body of his own."

"Do you think he found someone?"

"Ah; that brings us full circle to the events of yesterday. It is my belief that indeed Voldemort has found a willing subject, and, through that subject, he was able to lead the events of yesterday. You see, all the wizards who were killed yesterday, renounced Voldemort after his supposed demise. This very well could be a message from Voldemort to his followers that he will not accept disloyalty in any form."

Harry was cheering inside. "But, sir, why didn't he just kill me?"

Here, the professor grinned, maniacally in Harry's opinion. "For the very same reason he couldn't harm you before: your mother's protection. So, in order to do his best for now, he tried to frame you."

Harry took a deep breath, nodded, and relaxed. Everything was going to plan.


End file.
